


St Elmo's Fire (Draft Version)

by sinumbral



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Plotty, Post-Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, Viera Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinumbral/pseuds/sinumbral
Summary: The Warrior of Light returns to the First in search of more information about her crystal.Heavy spoilers for FFXIV Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal.DRAFT VERSION: This is the original version of this story, started for FFXIVWrite2020.  It was great for getting the ball rolling on the writing--but I started out without much of a plan, and it's pretty obvious in the early chapters.  A revamp of the early sections is underway.  This version will remain up and intact for posterity.  As it never hit Explicit, I've adjusted the rating accordingly.
Relationships: Elidibus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48
Collections: #FFxivWrite Final Fantasy 30 Day Writing Challenge - Complete Works





	1. Crux

**Author's Note:**

> Written contiguously for FFXIVWrite 2020, with no advance knowledge of prompts. As a result, there's a certain lack of planning here. All chapters unbetaed and unedited, with the exception of a quick pass for typos and grammos.
> 
> Present tags represent the (minimally-planned) arc of the fic; additional characters and situations will be tagged as they appear, but No Archive Warnings Apply is expected to consistently apply to the work entire.

Amaurot has availed her nothing. For many hours has she wandered the city seeking any who would speak to her about the sole crystal she carries, or about the rest of the Convocation at all, but the shades, by now half-faded and harder to understand, have no answers for her. She is loathe to ask the Scions what else _they_ might know of the Ascians' history for fear of being hounded into revealing _why_ she's asking, and her contacts in Othard and Ilsabard have other things to worry about.

It's the Crystarium for her for tonight, then, and she'll return to the Source first thing in the morning; it's not particularly late and she has plenty of time to make it back to Revenant's Toll before dinner if she wanted, but in some ways this place feels more welcoming, more like _home_ , than the world-shard of her birth ever was, and she does not wish to leave it behind so quickly. The First is remarkably free of the judgements that have followed her since her childhood: she is not wholly Viera, and her face is strong enough to serve as proof of her Garlean ancestry. In Dalmasca, she had been regarded with the pity reserved for those born to unwilling trysts with the invading officers--at least until her mother had informed people, quite sharply and enunciated by a few taps of her saw, that the fling had been entirely consensual on _both_ sides, and the two had parted by circumstance rather than any heroic rescues.

Then they only looked at her with scorn.

She had made a place for herself regardless, taking up one of her mother's finely-crafted bows and turning to a combination of hunting and courier work. So many joined the resistance efforts in search of glory that they were always in need of more hands willing to do the less glamorous work, and every day she'd spent hidden and alone, or undercover, was a day she didn't have to deal with others' dismissals of her and her work. Even after travelling to Eorzea to determine how they'd beaten back the Empire, not once but twice, she was not free of it, and the Eorzeans, less familiar with Viera, had added new insults to her lexicon of unwanted names.

Not here, though--here, necessity has driven people together, and _beastman_ is a word long forgotten in Norvrandt, where it does not do to insult those who tomorrow might save your life. Unwilling to give up on her search just yet, she makes her way to the Cabinet of Curiosity. Moren is as full of warm smiles, the sheer joy of knowledge, and Chessamile's slightly-minty energizing tea as ever and she cannot resist pulling him into an embrace, if only to watch him blush due to the effects of her height on such a maneuver.

But he has no more answers for her than do the fading Amaurotines. What he offers in its place is a thread of hope: he knows further tomes are locked within the Tower itself, full of knowledge the Exarch had deemed too dangerous if it were to fall into the hands of the Crystarium's enemies. There is less worry about that these days, and the Cabinet intends to look over the books to determine which are safe to move to the public collection, but none can yet bear to enter into that blue spire.

Even Lyna is unwilling to accompany her, and so she climbs the innumerable stairs alone. Halfway up, she pauses; memories of the last trip flood back to her, and of how it ended. G'raha Tia is alive, he is safe, but faced with that silent blue statue, there is no way to convince her mind of that truth, and she resolves to avoid it. She shouldn't need those upper floors anyways; the Exarch's private library is off of the Ocular, and while it's still a good way further up the tower than where she is, it's nowhere near the spire.

She keeps climbing.

She regrets her choice in clothes--her shoes are sturdy and support her feet well, but her gown is tight-laced and full-skirted, a gift from Leveva on demonstrating her skill at reading the stars. She has hardly taken it off of late; it seems fitting, somehow, in light of recent revelations, and she idly wonders if the astrologians, Sharlayan or Ishgardian, might know more about the constellations of the Ancients.

The door to the Ocular groans more loudly, feels heavier in her hands than she remembers, no doubt the result of recent disuse. In the center of the room, she stops: more memories, this time accompanied by Urianger's words, only now the Scions are gone as well. This place feels empty and hollow without them. The sound of her own breath echoes through the stone chamber--as does something else, and she startles. Behind her, the soft pattering of footsteps ceases.

Frjota Ulvloppe is not alone in the Ocular.


	2. Sway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: a suggestion of suicidal ideation.

Frjota turns to look, and is so startled by the sight that her ears stand up a bit straighter, turned a bit outwards: Elidibus stands behind her, in the form she knows best. "I thought you were--" she says, managing to shut her mouth in time to avoid an unconscionable social gaffe.

"So too did I at first," the Ascian responds, voice as smooth and dark as ever. If this is a trick, an illusion, it's a fine one, beyond her skill to pierce. "But what magics were cast bound me to the tower and with it, to life. I can neither leave nor die while the spell remains."

"Hmph," Frjota snorts, tossing her head a bit and setting her curls, presently a brilliant scarlet, to bouncing. "There are worse prisons; you've got plenty of books to read, rooms to explore, there's probably some old Allagan technology still stirring up trouble on the lower levels if you feel the urge to fight something..."

"All powered by the energies of the sun."

She's about to turn on her heel and leave him standing there alone when Emet-selch's words in the Greatwood return to her. "It harms you then? Or weakens you? Or both."

His face turns towards her--she hates masks with a fiery passion, and his is no exception, for she can't see where his gaze is pointed. "I possess barely a fraction of my former strength. Were we to fight again now, even alone you would not struggle to best me, though it would be to no consequence. The tower binds me as neatly as would auracite, slowing my aethers to near-stillness, and like auracite I shall only be free when it shatters."

"Free to die, you mean. Is that what you want?"

Beneath his mask, his lips tighten and their corners turn slightly downward; around them, what's visible of his face pales. But his gaze does not falter, and nor does he speak.

Her nostrils flare--more so than would any Hyur's, but not quite so much as a true Viera's would. But she is not unsympathetic to his plight. It would surely grate upon her just as badly to be stuck in Emet-selch's recreated Amaurot, malms from the wilderness, full of people who never change and never have anything new to say, unable to indulge her wanderlust... She understands, and when she looks down at him it's with a sad smile on her face. "You seemed to regain some portion of yourself there, at the end. Your memories, with the crystals..."

"Not a--" His voice cuts off in a sharp cry as he staggers; unthinking, Frjota reaches forth to grab his hands and arms to steady him. Thankfully he's more aware of his claws than she is, and she doesn't even remember he has them until she feels their cool pressure against her skin.

They're not nearly as sharp as she'd once imagined, in spite of their length.

"Forgive me," Elidibus says, voice more ragged now than it had been after fighting, "I am weak."

"You said you would struggle to _fight me_ , not that you would struggle merely to _stand!_ " Frjota half-snaps, temper rousing as quickly as ever not in anger, but in frustration. She is not the nurturer her mother is, and she racks her brain to think of what should be seen to first. "Have you eaten? Had something to drink? Has anyone brought you food?"

Another wave of tremors passes through the Emissary and he clings to her still more strongly; with as much care as she can muster, she guides him to the edge of the room to sit, grateful for her height and her strength, both more typical for a Garlean than a Viera. "Magic is," a pause, "quite beyond me, I fear; you see me only because of your gift and even then only in the way you know me best, and you are the first to enter this space in some time. The fountains on the lowest levels have no shortage of water it would seem, though the descent is not a short one."

Half a lifetime of wandering has taught her the virtue of preparedness. The waterskin she carries had been freshly filled before she started her climb and she uncaps it, holding it out to him. "Why not just stay down there, then? If it's this much of a struggle to return here."

"I do," he responds, taking it from her with gentle hands: again, he keeps his claws well clear of the leather. "As before, it was your presence which drew me here."


	3. Muster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for discussion of suicidal ideation remains for this chapter. I promise it won't stay this grim forever.

Frjota sits down at Elidibus' side, digging through her pouch until she finds a ration bar to thrust into his lap. "Drink. Eat. I can't take the sun's power away, but it might grant you some strength at least. Or--don't tell me you're unfamiliar with even _that_ much?"

He stops staring at the waterskin, turning his face towards her again. "No, I am...quite well aware of the necessities of existing in the flesh. I simply was not expecting to partake of them while not bound by it. But, the tower seems to necessitate that I do, for a time." He lifts it with both hands then, drinking deeply.

She cannot watch. He is the enemy--the greatest enemy she has yet faced, if his previous words are to be believed--and yet she has never done well faced with suffering. Her hunting knife has seen as much blood of tempered men as it has that of the beasts she hunts for food by now, and even in Ala Mhigo she refused to stand by while vigilantes enacted what vengeance they could on their former overlords. Part of her screams to finish what she and G'raha had started, to put him out of his misery, but she knows it's futile. If it could be done, Elidibus would have found a way by now.

So she quashes it and musters up what gumption she has. "I'll help you--figure out how to break the spell, I mean, so you can..." Her mouth dries up mid-sentence. "...so you can die. But I want something for it. Information. If you don't remember anything, that's fine, I won't hold you to it if that's the case. But whatever you _do_ remember, I want to know."

How he senses the exact physical nature of her discomfort she's not quite certain, but he certainly seems to and offers the waterskin back to her; she shakes her head in response. "No--keep it. It's..." ...a small comfort, a shred of dignity... "...yours. I have others."

The motions of his hands as he caps it are slow and careful, and when he's done he pulls it close to his chest, clinging to it--cradling it almost. The ration bar he gathers up between the claws of his thumb and forefinger; though they didn't seem sharp against her skin, they slice through the wax-paper wrapping with ease. "What is it you wish to know?"

"Do you accept, then?"

Elidibus has bitten off a chunk of the bar and was clearly intending to work at the chewy thing while he listened to her; her question catches him off-guard. "Mrf," he says, fighting with it, an undignified sound that brings a half-smile to Frjota's face, and then he tries again. "I will not aid an enemy. Which is not you." The qualifier comes right as her hackles start to raise, and she furrows her brows at his words.

"What do you mean, not me? I'm the one who's set myself against you these past years--I'm the reason you're _trapped in a tower at all_ ; if I'm not the enemy, then whom?"

He looks at her again, clearly searching her face, and she's sorely vexed by it, by how damnably unreadable he is and always has been in this form, bothered enough to scowl at him and cross her arms with a slight harumph. "Tell me what you wish to know," Elidibus repeats.

She'd stare _him_ down if she could but it's useless with that mask of his on; all she can do is reach back into her pouch for the orange-gold crystal, which she holds up before him between her fingers. "Tell me about it--as much as you can remember."

His lips fall open and he seems at a sudden and total loss for words, reaching forward to take it between his claws. She doesn't let go, but his touch ignites something in it, a faintly glowing light that seems to dance around the circle etched in its surface. "The crystal of Azem," he finally manages, voice soft, bordering on reverent. "I had thought it lost long ago..."

Frjota stares at it with wide golden eyes. "I haven't seen it do _that_ before."

"They react to each other. And to their owners--once they were impossible to lose, or to misplace. Thus did I use them to track down the shards of those members of the Convocation who were sundered, that they might be raised anew. That this one is clearly but a recreation of the original might explain its different behavior." The Emissary purses his lips, still tracing around the edge of the circle with a singular claw of his right hand, chasing the orbiting light. "Yes. I accept. Of all things, this should not be forgotten."


	4. Clinch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt used as alternate spelling 'clench.' No content warnings for this chapter; finally moving past the really grim stuff and into the plot.
> 
> This is headcanon-heavy; all of them are my own.

Frjota releases the stone, letting Elidibus have it; he's quick enough to move that it doesn't hit the ground but merely falls into his hand. He sets the half-eaten ration bar down in his lap, seemingly uncaring about the state of his white robes (until she remembers that they're not _real_ , _none of this_ is quite real, and she suddenly wonders what he really looks like, if not this and not the form she'd fought), and draws another crystal from a place she can't quite make out.

His own, she realizes--its light is more feeble than hers, and here in the Ocular it almost seems blue, a reflection of the walls and ceiling, until the two meet with a soft click and it takes on a soft golden hue.

 _Colourless_ , like a mirror, casting back whatever light is nearest in the absence of its own.

"I have not the strength to grant you its full power," he says, voice soft and solemn, "nor even to make use of my own. But I shall, if you permit it, before I go. You will have need of it, I think--that we have lost this war does not mean it is over, in fact I fear it has barely begun. More battles yet to fight..."

His voice trails off as he stares at the two rocks, seemingly entranced, and Frjota places one hand over them in an attempt to draw his attention back to her. "You've said that twice now, that you weren't fighting me, that there are other enemies. What do you _mean_?" Her temper is rising again, she can feel it, and she so badly wants to shake him in frustration until he spills his secrets out onto the patterned ground. But it would be worse than useless--such pressure as she wants to apply would surely have him scrambling back into hiding, into hibernation, away from her view, and so she waits.

"What, _who_ , drove you to this--Hydaelyn, her summoners..." Elidibus' words are disjointed, incomplete phrases, and she struggles to follow his meaning at first. "You were only ever meant to be a tool, a means to keep Light and Dark in balance while we worked--you were never meant to see us. We could focus our attentions elsewhere..."

She cuts him off. "On the Rejoinings, you mean."

"And on preventing them from finding a way to undo our work, to sunder anew what had already been Rejoined, to recreate what she did so long ago."

"Venat, the heart of Hydaelyn. As you are, or were, the heart of Zodiark."

The Ascian nods, clenching his fist around the two crystals; his claws seem not to be a hindrance. "You have heard her name, then--good. I had feared I would have to begin anew with the telling, a part of my memory that has not yet seen fit to return to me. I mentioned before that I had withdrawn myself from Him. I did so at the moment of the Sundering, that I might not share His fate. It was not an act without consequences, though; some part of me remains there with him, and so I am not properly Unsundered, being only twelve parts of thirteen. But the differences in how it was done make the results...nearly inconsequential, to one such as you. I am still able to call upon that part of my strength, the part of me that remains His heart."

Frjota purses her lips. "Twelve of thirteen--the remainder of the Convocation!"

"Each of them offered up a part of themselves to become part of Zodiark, and I my whole self; in exchange, they received a part of Him--what you know as tempering--and thus also a part of me. I was...reconstituted from those pieces after the Sundering, primarily by Lahabrea and Igeyorhm."

He opens his hand again, offering Azem's crystal back to her; she takes it, pondering a moment and then asking, "How did Lahabrea and Emet-Selch survive, then, if not through the protections of Zodiark?"

He starts a bit in surprise at her question. "Lahabrea's lessers are in need of some correction, it seems," he muses to himself before continuing on. "Emet-Selch's ability to traverse the aetherial river served him well; while Hydaelyn turned her attention to the material world, he concealed himself within it, and returned to this plane once the Sundering was complete. As for Lahabrea...he possessed a remarkable ability to render the most complicated of concepts in such a way that they could be easily understood, yet his first and true passion was as a scholar. His studies took him deep into the nature of reality, and for the briefest of moments he embodied a paradox, at once existing and not existing. I don't think she quite knew what to do with him, and so left him be." By the end of Elidibus' recounting, there's half of a smile on his face, brought back with memories once lost to him.

And Frjota can't help but smile with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schrodinger's Lahabrea, theoretical physicist, is an idea that has been rattling around in my head for quite some time. I'm glad to have finally found a use for it--as, no doubt, is my FC, who shall no longer have to put up with that terrible joke.


	5. Matter of Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got long. I hope you enjoy! Tomorrow's chapter should wrap up part one of the story, and Monday's will start part two.
> 
> No additional content warnings apply to this chapter.

Elidibus stays like that for some time, smiling down at the stone in his hand. "I had forgotten so much of that time--and after so many millenia, it is you who have restored those memories to me. I owe you my thanks."

"If it's the stone doing it," Frjota asks, her tone frank, "why's it only happening now? Didn't you have one before? Isn't that how you," she waves her hand, "came to be what you are to begin with?"

He shakes his head slightly and the folds of his cowl flutter a bit in the resulting breeze--a sign of the strength he's regaining from proper nourishment. "Like Azem's, my stone is a recreation. As I sacrificed myself to become Zodiark's heart, so too does the original form His core. It--the powers of the seat of Elidibus which it grants--such is the very thing that makes Him a primal."

Her brows furrow and her lips purse in a deep scowl. "Powers which you _also_ possess--that would mean your becoming a primal was almost inevitable!"

"Indeed, and so the seat has always been, though I fear twelve millennia of sundered life have all but stripped its title of meaning." He settles back against the wall, pocketing the stone, looking almost entirely relaxed for the first time since her arrival. "You have sat down to the negotiating table, have you not? What do you consider to be the duties of an Emissary?"

Frjota regards him, not quite certain of what he's getting at--but if the Ancients appointed only the greatest of scholars to lead them, then Elidibus must surely be the most knowledgeable person still living, and she's not incurious enough to fail to take full advantage of _that_. The answer to his question seems obvious enough to her, and she gives it readily. "Why, to go before one's enemy and state one's position, of course."

The Ascian smiles at her, not unlike that day years ago when he favored her with a similar expression after she passed his trials in Thanalan: the slight grin of a teacher who has predicted his pupil's solution to every problem, including the wrong answers. "Is it now? And no doubt the Emissary of the other side will seek to do the same. How then do they make progress?"

"By speaking to one another, of course," she replies, crossing her arms loosely over her belly in annoyance.

"Truly the epitome of sundered self-centeredness," comes his response, but his tone suggests this was inevitable and all part of the lesson he intends to teach. "And yet before one speaks, is it not first important to listen? To understand your opponent's grievances?"

"--the Waking Sands! You expected us to meet you on that ground then, but...none of us wanted to understand _you_ , Minfilia and I most of all. Because of Hydaelyn's voice?"

"That I cannot say. At the time I thought you perhaps still too sundered to reach so far beyond yourselves, but more recent events have called that into question. Regardless," he chides, "such is not the point of this lesson, which was intended to be about my purpose and how I might be able to help _you_."

Frjota flushes, nose flattening and gnawing at her lip a bit; she feels a schoolgirl in southern Ilsabard again, caught passing notes in class by her Garlean instructors. "Sorry, go on?"

He snorts, and even that sounds elegant coming from him. "The seat of Elidibus, then--in Amaurot it was my duty to serve not only as a mediator, but to bear the emotional weight of the Convocation and any who brought matters before it, that they might be discussed with a clear head. Unto myself I took their highest hopes and their deepest despairs in order to convey them more clearly to the council."

"And in becoming Zodiark--and then the Warrior of Light--that was merely an expansion of those duties, wasn't it? To carry the will of the people, of the very star itself, for salvation and restoration, a duty you remained bound to until I freed you from it, just as I freed Emet-Selch.

"Only to bind you here instead..."

He nods once. "Which means, in some sense, I am no longer Elidibus, or at least not the same Elidibus--a ...rebirth and Ascendance, of sorts, into the role I fulfilled before the Sundering."

"Is that why you looked like a child?" she asks of him, having been curious about that particular...vision? ever since it had happened.

"Likely so, yes," he affirms. "Even long ago I was ever reluctant to show myself; I more readily gave my name than removed my mask, for to bare my face was to reveal the full weight of the burdens I carried, and my brothers would surely worry about me. I assure you, I was not even the youngest of the Convocation at the time of the Sundering--that honor fell to Emet-Selch, who beat out Nabriales for it by a mere half-century, much to the latter's dismay. They were each in succession the youngest to be chosen for their roles, and a wiser man may have seen the portents in that. But we were perhaps blinder than we should have been, and we missed those signs. Only Azem, whose seat you now hold, foresaw some of what was to befall us, and for speaking on it we called him a harbinger of doom, cast him out and struck his name from our number."

Frjota gapes at him. "Me? A stone surely does not a seat make!"

Another smile, this one more cryptic than the last. "We could not strip Azem of the powers of his seat--nor did we try. When the Sundering came, they remained intact, and so did each of his shards inherit them, though not at their full strength. It was that which I strove to reflect in becoming the first Warrior of Light, and it has been the defining trait of _all_ such Warriors since. My last and clearest memories of the time before my sacrifice were of him--of striving to mediate between Azem and the remainder of the Convocation. They shaped who I became, in many ways, following my withdrawal from Zodiark."

"If that's the case, what purpose does this serve?" Frjota asks, showing him her stone once more; it still glows faintly. "What did you mean by granting it its full power?"

He hums--a soft, pure tone full of melancholy so deep she can nearly taste it. "You are sundered; Azem's powers are split between all shards of you. With it unlocked, you would be able to call upon what _all_ of those shards possess, not merely your own, though your own body's capacity for aether would remain a limiting factor. Regardless, you would be considerably more efficient at its use, able to accomplish much more with far less. Thus did we call the process Ascension, the approximation of the Unsundered in a sundered form."

She lowers the crystal to her lap, staring at it; it gleams pure orange-gold in spite of the blue of the Ocular, so like and yet unlike Elidibus' own. She's just opening her mouth to reply when he speaks once more, giving voice to the very words she'd been about to say.

"I have no doubt you will be as worthy of it as your predecessor. Still, all of that leaves me at a slight advantage over you for now, for I know both your title and your true name, and I would remedy that. Please: call me Lachesis."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The discussion of Elidibus' powers here is intended to represent those of the seat of Elidibus, not of the individual presently occupying it; those are saved for a later chapter, as is his particular implementation of his seat's powers.
> 
> Lachesis is the weaver of the Fates or Moirai; traditionally depicted as a woman in white, it was her duty to assign people to their lots in life. It is also a genus of vipers.


	6. (Extra Credit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This brings us to the end of what would be Part 1 of a more traditionally-written fic. Tomorrow starts Part 2! Things are finally starting to look in a shippy direction, for which I'm sure you're all quite glad.
> 
> In other news, I've now got a very rough outline/draft of the final two chapters of this story, so I have a pretty good idea of the endpoint.
> 
> I've added additional tags for PTSD and Amnesia. These apply to the work as a whole and will be a recurring theme.

"Lachesis," the Viera says, though her mouth can't quite shape the word in the same way his does. "It's a pretty name--I like it." A blush spreads across her copper cheeks. "I'm Frjota. But you knew that, of course."

"I have known it since Lahabrea's encounter with you in the Praetorium."

"But not before?"

She can't see Lachesis' blink of surprise through his mask, but she can _feel_ it, or maybe she's just getting better at reading the motions of his mouth beneath that red beak. "No. That is when I was awakened--Sabik called to that part of me which is Zodiark and it resonated between that piece and this, disturbing me from where I slumbered."

Frjota laughs belly-deep, shaking a bit and sending tousled curls tumbling. "So Emet-Selch is not the only one given to a nice long nap."

"Managing the events surrounding each Rejoining takes much out of me; so many energies, in need of such delicate balance... Did I remain active between them, I would be useless when I was needed most. Instead, I rest between, a time of restoration and recovery. Had you not appeared when you did, I should no doubt have slipped into a similar hibernation now. Though as I am now bound by the Tower, it likely would have been an eternal one." He purses his lips. "You did not come here for me. Forgive me...I have held you up from some important duty."

"No, no," she responds, shaking her head. "I came wanting to learn more about Azem's crystal. You told me everything I could have hoped to find in the Exarch's library and more--thank you."

"Call it fate, then," Lachesis says, and by the tone of his voice Frjota feels like he's making a joke she doesn't understand. "You would have found nothing on it in the books there. They do contain however quite the legendarium of your own accomplishments, though I believe some to be rather embellished. I have had time to read many of them."

Frjota blushes much more deeply this time. "I take it you'll want something new to occupy your time then, as well as a delivery of food. Painting supplies? Triple Triad solitaire?"

"I'm rather fond of a Doman pastime known as go but it's unsuited for playing alone. Some manner of instrument would be nice. Flute or harp, perhaps?"

She nods. "A flute should be easy enough, and...you don't mind a novice bard's battle-harp, do you? Those are easy to find and portable. I can't imagine trying to lug a full-sized one here from the Source."

"Nor I." He sighs deeply, leaning his head back against the wall of the Ocular. "If only I had access to some small bits of magic, enough that I could while away the hours with the simplest acts of Creation...balls for juggling, blocks for building, a hoop to chase down the stairs as I did in the Akadaemia between classes as a child..."

Another spate of returning memories, Frjota thinks, these quite incongruous with his present personality. She holds back laughter with a hand clamped over her mouth, determined not to distract him from that bit of joy. Eventually his voice trails off once more, and she looks to him. "I should be going--I'm expected back on the Source first thing in the morning, and I really should go tonight but it's quieter here on the First. I'll make sure someone's come by with actual food before I leave, not just," she waves a hand at the half of a ration bar he's still holding, "that. I'll be back as soon as I can, though. I promise; I... _want_ to learn more. About Azem, and about Amaurot."

_About you_ , she doesn't say as she pulls herself to her feet, brushing non-existent dust off her gown and smoothing what wrinkles remain from how she sat in it. Lachesis says nothing, only hums a bit: a single pure note, wholly unlike the speech of the Amaurotines, so heavily laden with emotion that she nearly staggers under its weight, the hope and trust that he yearns to give but can't yet, not so soon.

She understands, and as she descends the stairs of the Crystal Tower, she can think of nothing else. Halfway across the Exedra on her way back to the Pendants, she pauses, looking back up towards the section of the Tower where the Ocular lays.

The energy it expends to bind its lone occupant is apparent, now that she knows what to look for: its spires are wreathed in blue lightning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sabik is one of the brightest stars in the constellation Ophiuchus, which with Elidibus is associated, it being one on his stone. This portrayal of a relationship between the Heart of Sabik in the Praetorium and Elidibus as the heart of Zodiark is just a headcanon, but it's one I'm rather fond of.
> 
> Some twenty years ago, I read a book entitled The Last Hawk by Catherine Asaro, wherein politics (amongst other things) played out by way of a dice game called quis. It amuses me to think of Elidibus, Emet-Selch, and Lahabrea planning out Rejoinings in a similar manner with go.
> 
> Reviews are always welcome! I love to hear what you think, including _gentle_ concrit. This is pretty raw and unbetaed, and I'm considering editing it into a more organized piece in the future...assuming I don't get distracted by the likely sequel.


	7. Clamor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And part 2 begins! This is a shorter chapter that bridges into the next section; I wanted to flesh out Frjota's character a bit more. I'm adding a general Scions of the Seventh Dawn tag to the work; while they won't be focus characters, they will appear often enough that it's worth tagging.
> 
> I've updated the total chapter number to reflect that three days' worth of pieces will be entr'actes, uploaded as a separate fic. I'm still slaving away at the first! It's proving to be a little longer and more involved than I anticipated when I first started writing it.

Frjota returns to the Rising Stones amidst the clamor of dropped dishes in the Seventh Heaven; the newest server is an Ishgardian girl escaping an unwanted marriage, and she's better with an embroidery needle than she is with the washing-up. Regardless, she's earnest and has a smile for everyone, and the plates the tavern uses are unlikely to break at even the roughest handling.

It's not the peace and quiet Frjota wants, though, and she pushes her way through the door to collapse into a chair with a soft sigh. She's barely managed to shut her eyes when she hears the chair across from her scraping across the floor, and she cracks one open, regarding the man sitting across from her with a slitted golden look.

"I was surprised to learn you wished to visit the First again so swiftly," G'raha Tia says, "and so suddenly as to leave without informing anyone other than Hoary Boulder of your plans. Had I known you were going, I would have asked you to check in on certain things for me."

"It's peaceful there," she responds. "There's little chance that word will come from Ala Mhigo or Doma about Garlemald's latest attempts to stir up trouble, and if something dire does happen here, I'm sure the pixies will see fit to inform me at once. And, well. I left so _suddenly_. I never really got a chance to explore it as a place in its own right, it was always on to the next fight. I want to hike the mountains in Kholusia, and go swimming in Rak'tika, and fall asleep under the stars in Amh Araeng. You know? And if it's Moren you're asking after, Moren never changes."

It's the wanderlust in her that G'raha knows so well--that he shares, that pulled him from Sharlayan in the first place and has driven him to find a new home amongst the Scions. "Indeed, having dealt with the threat of the Ascians the quiet here on the Source does feel rather like waiting for the other shoe to drop. You're intending to return periodically, then?"

"I do," Frjota says, "though I've a few other visits I'd like to make first. Gridania for new bowstrings. Francel has invited me to Ishgard to speak a few words at the next phase of his restoration project." She blushes at the last--she'd fancied herself in love with him once, with his smiling face that seemed straight from one of the Church's illuminated hagiographies and his ardent devotion to duty. But it wasn't meant to be; the same duties which drove her interest bound him to the city of his birth as strongly as her own kept her on the road, and they'd parted as close friends. "I've considered taking up the lance again. It seems...useful, and if I want to expand my skills, there's no better place for it, and the morbols near Idyllshire make good practice targets--sluggish enough to be fairly easy kills but dangerous enough to keep me on my toes."

She doesn't mention the man in the Tower, nor her intent to visit the Gubal Library for research and perhaps a few volumes that might interest him. Of all the Scions, Y'shtola might best understand her desire to help him, or at least to learn all she can from him, and she wishes she knew how to approach the blind Miqo'te for aid. But she doesn't know how to prove his inability--or unwillingness--to cause harm, and to too many here, he is an enemy, even in defeat.

"A bit of combat might serve you well," comes Alisaie's voice as she joins them, leaning on the table by Frjota, "if being out of it so long has got you this gloomy. Don't I know the feeling, though, always looking forward to the next challenge." She levels an imaginary sword at G'raha. "Either of you care for a spar? Loser's got mess duty!"

"Sure," the Viera says, pulling herself to her feet. "Let me grab my lance--if Alberic finds out how rusty I've gotten, I'll never live it down."


	8. Lush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update today, since yesterday I was a little shaken.

Alisaie had delivered to Frjota such a drubbing in the first round of their spar that the Viera had feared she'd never recover, but her skills slowly returned to her and by the end, she'd knocked off enough rust that even Alberic had found little to fault on her next visit. Her visit to Gridania had gone equally smoothly; she made her way to Ishgard with not only fresh strings for her bow, but a small flute and harp of the sort the Hearers sometimes played to soothe the elementals. Ishgard itself had been beyond bustling, between the workmen arriving from all over Eorzea to take part in the next phase of the Restoration to the commoners clamoring for a shot at the new houses to the members of Parliament all seeking to appear the most benevolent before their subjects with feasts and dances and building projects of their own.

It was Ehll Tou who'd found her sitting on the outer wall of the New Nest, looking out over the snow-covered Coerthan plains, and on a whim she'd shared...well, the _basics_ , at least, of her plight with the dragonet. To Frjota's surprise, she'd landed on the wall, tucked her tail up around herself like some scaly cat, and looked up with her with wide eyes. "Well," she asked, "are you trying to help people, or hurt them?"

"Help, obviously!" Frjota had exclaimed, brushing snowflakes off of her copper skin--the cold was her least favorite thing about Ishgard. "But am I helping the right person? What if all of this is just an act, a setup for betrayal? Ascians..." The words hung in her throat. "...Ascians lie."

Elidibus. _Lachesis_ , who still struggled to conceal so much of himself from her, and at so great a cost to himself. Even in pain his mouth had barely twisted; she had seen no tears as his memories returned to him, and he buried the truth of his weakness in carefully-chosen words. But to what purpose were his prevarications--a preface to striking, or an attempt to avert _being struck at_?

A red-orange wing tapped her in the leg, disrupting her thoughts. "Ascians lie, and dragons eat people. But there's always more to the story, is there not?"

"I can't imagine you eating a Moraby mole, pests that they are. I've learned some things, but every answer I get seems to only leave me with a dozen more questions. At what point does pursuing them become too dangerous? When it leads you straight into the lair of the enemy?"

Ehll Tou leapt up from the wall and did a little backflip in the air before resuming her hovering. "You might want to ask somebody else that question--after all, that is _exactly_ why I came to Ishgard!"

And so Frjota had left Ishgard behind--Ishgard and the Restoration and Francel, beautiful, sweet Francel--and made her way to Idyllshire at last. The Dravanian Hinterlands feels different, with what she knows now about Amaurot and the Akadaemia; the morbols seem relics frozen in a time long-forgotten, and the halls of the Great Gubal Library seem to differ from Anyder's only in scale and the ever-present scent of mouldering pages.

She'd come here looking for books that might be relevant to the problem at hand, and she finds them aplenty--few enough works about Allag itself, long believed a myth, but no few covering the marvels of its magitek (and the Garlean implementations thereof) and far more than she can count on the usage of crystals in channeling energy. She stuffs some of the most promising into her bag, alongside enough skatene feathers to fletch an army's worth of arrows, and settles down to the most challenging part of her task here: something Lachesis might enjoy reading. One of the volumes on Garlean magitek, it turns out, details the reconstruction of an ancient Allagan musical instrument in the palace; that one Frjota adds immediately to the 'Keep' pile. So too do the first and third volumes of _Sites of Historical Sorcery_ , which seem fitting for an academic; the second volume is slimy and she doesn't care to examine why too closely.

She's on her way out again when something catches her eye; someone has brushed enough of the dust off of a hand-bound tome so its gold-leafed pages catch her eye, and then left it sitting on the floor. _Folktales from Foreign Lands_ , the front cover proclaims it to be, and the illustrations inside remind her of the childrens' books from the First. The stories are all penned by different hands; a few of them read more like journal entries than storytellers' accounts, and she can't find the thread to follow to piece them together into a coherent whole until she turns back to the beginning.

 _Accounts of Champions of Light and Darkness_.

Frjota can't shove it into her pack quickly enough, though she tries to take enough care not to damage the surely-fragile pages. She's on her way out of the Library when her linkpearl chimes. "You have to come back quick," Tataru's voice rings out from it. "Revenant's Toll is under attack!"

She takes off for the boundaries of the Library's enchantments as quickly as her feet can carry her.


	9. Avail

Frjota flings her pack to the ground under the Revenant's Toll aetheryte as soon as she emerges, stringing her bow as she runs towards the southeastern gate where the sounds of pitched battle can be heard. The portcullis is closed, denying the attackers entry into the town itself, and she bounds up the stairs onto the wall for a better position from which to shoot--only to draw up short as she realizes the nature of the foes she faces.

Sin Eaters.

There's no time to contemplate why or how; she climbs a tower and launches volley after volley of arrows into the oncoming wave of white, grateful that the terrain thins them out on the final approach. She's relieved to find the researchers of St Coinach's Find flinging spells at her side; their encampment may need rebuilding but the people are safe. Several machinists are there too, headed up by a Garlean whose ruffled skirts are slit to her thighs, revealing a knife as long as Frjota's forearm and a flask sized for a Roegadyn. A Duskwight keeps the time, dancing to a music only he can hear, chakrams slicing through the mass of beasts; his movements make war look like art, and she yearns to watch him more sometime.

Slowly but surely, they thin the enemy's ranks into nothingness; by the time they descend from the ramparts, she is sagging with exhaustion, as are most of those who fought alongside her. She rejoins the Scions in the plaza, where she's quickly escorted into the Seventh Heaven, which Krile and Tataru have taken over for a makeshift infirmary. Alphinaud is the last to join them as the two Lalafell press replenishing tonics into their hands, and he looks as tired as Frjota feels. "I can't say I was expecting that welcoming party," he says with a wry grin.

"And yet there can be no doubt as to the nature of our foe," Y'shtola says. "But their attacks seem uncoordinated, and I noticed no Lightwarden amongst them."

"They just rushed both gates, trying to break through!" comes Alisaie's voice as she half-collapses beside her brother. "At least none of the injured show any signs of transforming."

Indeed, the injuries are remarkably few for the length of the battle. There's a Highlander with an axe, clearly caught up in the beast rage by the southwestern gate; the Garlean woman who'd fought alongside Frjota tends the lesser injuries while a young conjurer tends to his ravaged leg, and she spares a grin for the Scions. "I wouldn't've married him if he wasn't so reckless," she says, "nor likely even met him!" The conjurer turns to look at her also, and beneath his hood she can see horns: a Padjal. He presses a finger to his lips and goes back to healing in silence. There are two Miqo'te sisters as well, a pair of monks who'd attempted some reconnaissance from the air only to see their chocobos fall to some of the flyers. Stranded on the far side of the wall, they'd held their own until the Sin Eaters' numbers fell enough for them to make a break for town; both are exhausted and bleeding, but neither boasts major injuries.

It's Urianger who speaks next. "Indeed--their attack did seem exploratory in nature, rather than an attempt to seize control of the town. But there doth exist in Eorzean bestiaries no recent account of such beasts. For that, one must turn their gaze back to the Fifth Astral Era, to the city of Amdapor."

Frjota feels the eyes on her before she sees them; turning her head towards the Rising Stones proper, she spots a small figure garbed all in white standing in the doorframe. Unukalhai is watching them, and she gives him a small encouraging smile. "The balance is off, isn't it?" he asks, voice clear if a bit shaky. "Light and Dark. Someone has to keep it in check, but you're all Light, and all the Ascians are gone. It's like with the Thirteenth--too much Dark, and you get Voidsent. Too much Light--"

"--and Sin Eaters emerge," Urianger cuts in. "In eradicating the Ascians we forestalled the Calamity of Light on the First, acting on the presumption that Black Rose did form the impetus of their operation here and that without them it would flounder."

Frjota frowns. "Ser Estinien reported on the destruction of the factories, and Gaius Baelsar corroborated every word in his own account without knowing of what I'd already learned."

Y'shtola taps her chin. "It would seem we are missing a piece of the puzzle. Frjota, return to the First, determine if there have been any new reports of Sin Eaters there--if someone is capable of summoning them across the shards as is done with Voidsent, that would be the most obvious source. Krile, G'raha Tia, and I will set our minds to the question of who might have done such summoning, or whether they were perhaps turned here on the Source. Urianger--any records of Amdapor you might possess, now is the time to share them. The rest of you should make ready for another attack. I suspect this was but a test of our defenses."

"I'll send word to the Grand Companies at once," Alphinaud says, "to be on the watch for attackers of an aetheric nature. Thankfully they are used to receiving reports from me that are rather scant on details."

"I'll carry the one for Ala Mhigo back with me myself," the Garlean woman says, "and if they won't listen I'll _make_ them listen. I'm Flavia, by the way, defected years ago, Karsten and I've been helping others get out ever since. Most come here or..."

Frjota tunes her voice out; from the doorway, Unukalhai is still looking at her, fully-masked face no less readable than his master's half-masked one. A sudden sound, like the snapping of bone echoing through infinite hallways of crystal, has her jumping, and when she looks back at the boy he's gone, door clicking shut behind him. "Did you..." she starts to ask, but the conversation continues unabated, and nobody seems to have been disturbed.

Except for her.

"Right, I'll grab my things and be off then," she says, hurrying back to the aetheryte plaza before anyone can say otherwise. The ferry ride across the lake seems to take forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're a third of the way through the planned chapters, and things are starting to pick up! Most of the final two chapters have been written, and I intend to keep this piece pretty on track with the month itself. Hopefully that works out for me.
> 
> Apologies for the lack of update yesterday. I hope two chapters today makes up for it!


	10. Ultracrepidarian

Frjota's first sight on entering the Ocular through the portal is of Lachesis struggling under the weight of an overstuffed armchair, grunting as he attempts to shove, pull, and carry it by turns. She immediately goes to help him with it. "What are you doing?"

He stands up straight, a singularly stubborn look on what shows of his face. "Redecorating. I located what must have been the Crystal Exarch's bedroom nearby, and if I am to be stuck here I will try and make it somewhat comfortable. Even if it is...not the decor I would prefer. I expected you to be gone longer."

The sudden change in topic spares her the opportunity, for better or worse, to share her thoughts on the chair in question--'hideous,' she feels, is too mild a word by several orders of magnitude. "There was an attack on Revenant's Toll--how familiar _are_ you with the geography of the Source?"

"Well," Lachesis says, quirking his lips in what might almost be a smile, "I cannot say for certain that I know more of it than you, but I am quite familiar with that particular area."

Frjota harumphs. "Well, that makes it easy, at least. Sin Eaters attacked the town from the south on both sides, but there was no sign of a Lightwarden. The Scions are working on the presumption they were summoned, much as Voidsent are, and sent me back here to research."

His chin lifts the slightest bit and he opens his mouth to say something, then pauses to reconsider. "Come. There are better places to talk than here in a room neither of us can make much use of."

She balls up her fists. "Leading me on a third wild ziz chase, are you?"

"I was going to lead you to a room with chairs. But if you would rather stand, then by all means we may remain where we are."

The sweeping grandiosity with which he gestures with one clawed hand reminds her strongly of Emet-Selch, and she briefly wonders if the three Unsundered might not have picked up more of each others' mannerisms after so long with only one another for company. But Lachesis is turning to go already, clearly intent on leaving her there if she doesn't follow.

* * *

It's a short walk down a couple of stairs and through a short hallway into what was once clearly a private study. Signs of recent disuse remain: some of the chairs are draped in heavy fabric, and a liquor cabinet holds as much dust as it does spirits. Drawings are still taped to the walls and the lone table, and it takes Frjota a moment to realize what they show: the primal Alexander's primary mechanism for altering the course of history, covered in the notes of the Ironworks engineers, now faded into near-illegibility.

Lachesis rather pointedly isn't looking at them and she's about to open her mouth to ask why when he shakes his head. "I know better than to place my hope in that manner of salvation," he says softly. A pair of leather armchairs, in rough shape but serviceable enough, sit in front of a cold fireplace and he gestures towards them. "Sit. It is as comfortable a place as I've found."

The room is dimly lit and his white robes are the brightest thing in it, seeming to radiate their own light, casting over his mask and jaw along with the chair; it's a far cry from how the other Ascians seemed to redefine the very nature of darkness, and she finds herself wanting to look at him in better light than this, to see what he's hiding, what Emet-Selch so readily showed to her, even if it is shaped by her own apparently-feeble understanding of reality. But it isn't the time to ask, nor does she know the words to use if it were, and so she shakes her head and takes a seat across from him, leaning forward. "You're looking better, at least. Stronger--more real?"

His mouth opens slightly in what she's come to recognize as an expression of surprise at the fact that she cares about his well-being enough to ask after it. "I have regained enough of my strength that what you see of me is, to some extent, how I wish to appear; nothing more. Now, the matter of the Sin Eaters--I find it difficult to believe that your compeers are capable of such feats as they have accomplished these past few years, while lacking even the most rudimentary understanding of the basics of aetherology. In truth, such was not initially the school of my studies either, but I shall impart to you what I can. We begin by dismissing the most basic premise: the idea that Voidsent and Sin Eaters are functionally identical, interchangeable even. What is the most basic difference between them?"

"Oh," Frjota says, settling in for another of the Ascian's strange and twisting but undoubtedly _informative_ lectures. "Uh, the nature of their aether? Voidsent are Dark, versus Sin Eaters are Light."

Lachesis favors her with a nod. "On their own, equal yet opposite ends of a single spectrum. Both are inevitably given to seek the same thing: to devour whatever aether they may, preferably of their own aspect, in order to gain strength to continue their hunt and create more of their kind. A simple cycle: eat and reproduce. What differentiates them is how they manifest that desire, which is determined by that base aetheric nature."

"Light is the element of life but also stagnation; Dark is death but also chaos. But how does that affect _them_?"

"Incorrect, on both sides. Think of them instead as _stability_ versus _change_ , with stagnation and chaos representing the worst and deepest manifestations of each."

"Unukalhai said that they might have emerged because the balance was off, but nobody had any ideas as to _why_ it would be off," she responds.

"Unukalhai..." Lachesis says, pressing a hand to his chest. "He is well, then?"

Frjota smiles at him. "He is, and I understand him a bit better, I think, now that I've seen...what Emet-Selch had to show me."

"Good--good. He is," a pause, "I care for him, though I do not yet understand why. I would be greatly troubled if aught were to befall him on the Source."

Another memory lost? the Viera muses, or had he spent so long in isolation that the very thought of caring for another person is strange beyond his ability to understand? "I'll do my best to protect him," she says, "no matter what happens. But you were saying about Voidsent and Sin Eaters?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ends a bit abruptly, but it will pick up exactly here tomorrow.


	11. 11

Lachesis sits back in his chair, relaxing slightly. "Voidsent, being as they are embodiments of the energy of change, travel widely as they hunt; little energy is needed to draw them through a portal, as they seek them out on their own. This is why any novice thaumaturge can summon them. Sin Eaters, however, are creatures of stability; Lightwardens staked out territories, and their lesser counterparts ventured forth primarily to expand their bounds or establish new ones. Convincing one to not merely venture close to a portal but traverse it would be quite difficult. Think, if you would, on the energies required to summon _you_ here across the rift once you were willing to make the journey; think then on how much more it would take to bring even a single someone across unwilling."

" _You_ did it," Frjota says, "all those heroes."

The shape of his mouth is once again damnably unreadable beneath the beak of his scarlet mask. "I am no novice thaumaturge--and even I had to draw upon the energies of the Tower to bring to the First small parts of those souls who were already bound to the cause."

"So a summoning is probably out, then--meaning whatever happened to make them, it happened on the Source itself. But why? The situation here on the First is resolved, a Flood of Light there would be..."

"Completely unrecoverable. No further shards would be able to be rejoined, and those which remained would continue on forever as they are, single pieces with no connection to one another and limited potential without it."

Frjota crosses her arms over her chest. "Not that there's anyone left to do any rejoining. No more Ascians, no more Calamities."

"A fundamental misunderstanding: a part of Amaurot's history that Emet-Selch neglected to impart. One of many, it seems. Imbalances of the elements are natural and, on a small scale, quite common. Indeed, the initial Convocation came together in order to manage the aetheric workings necessary to combat such, though as a whole we tended to let the smaller ones happen so as to reduce the frequency of the larger. Such was the duty of Amaurot." Lachesis' mouth twists into a wry smile at that, and Frjota can't help but wonder what he's not saying--what he's remembering. Still, he continues on. "The Sound differed from previous events in drawing energy of an aspect we did not understand, from a source we were never able to determine. In all other respects, it was identical to every Calamity which has occured before and since that time. For the latter, we merely redirected them--some we delayed, and we sped others along."

"Bending energies that already existed to your own will...but why destroy the _Source_ like that?"

"A Calamity of Light--the deepest and most twisted expression of the energy of stagnation. Not to die, but to remain frozen forever in time, unable to move forward or back."

"Like the Crystal Exarch," she says, narrowing her eyes in thought. "The energies of the Tower itself. Light, unopposed by Darkness...you can't mean _Hydaelyn_?!" Two voices war in her head; Hydaelyn's _'ware thee the bearer of the crimson brand, whom Death attendeth always_ against the Emissary's own in the Crystarium, _you are death_.

Lachesis shakes his head. "No--she is a primal, and she does exactly and only what she was bade to do by her summoners, and I can bear her no ill will for that seeing as how some part of me is bound to a similar charge. _They_ , however, and Venat in particular: they desire to see the shards remain separated, though to what purpose I do not understand."

"So you think they--Venat and her supporters, are behind it, then. The attack." Frjota feels small, all of a sudden, woefully inadequate to the task before her, the legacy she seems to have inherited. If even an Ascian doesn't have all the answers, what hope does she have to piece together this new puzzle?

But it has never been her way to let such reservations stop her, and for as long as Lachesis is willing to teach her, she is willing to learn. So, full of the same steely resolve that has borne her through so many battles, she presses on with her questions. "Tell me about Hydaelyn? Her summoning, and what led to that, whatever you remember."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but a natural pausing point before getting into the next part of the conversation.
> 
> As you may have noticed by the slight delay in getting this one out and the change in the chapter titles, I'm dropping out of FFXIVWrite. It provided me with a really good start to this fic, but I've got enough ideas now for it to carry itself forward and I no longer want to be bound by the prompts! Rest assured that updates will continue, but might be every 2-3 days now as I want to post more substantial chapters.
> 
> The rest of this story is outlined and a sequel is in planning, though I will probably take a month off between wrapping this one up and starting to post that one to work on other projects. It's presently slated as my NaNoWriMo story for November.


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got really long. Apologies for the delay; I hope it was worth it! Bring Kleenex.
> 
> I've added Angst as a work tag, which will be updated to its proper form at the end; for now, I don't want to mislead people.

Frjota can feel the weight of Lachesis' gaze on her even through his mask; his eyes are hidden, but that means little, and the realization of why hits her in the belly like a block of lead. "You're an empath!" she says, cutting him off before he can respond to her question.

"I am Elidibus," he answers, "so yes. My predecessors expressed the powers of the seat in other ways, but this is what the stone first imparted to me when I took it up, it is what made me the best choice to serve as Zodiark's heart, and it has served me well in ...times since. But the gift itself is not precisely aetheric, and so the Tower does not impede it, only my _control_ of it, which is. For what effects I've had on you, I apologize. It was not my intent."

"No--no," she says, shaking her head, "it's more that I can tell what _you're_ thinking, or feeling. Anyways. If being an empath is why you became Zodiark's heart, does that mean Venat is too?"

He bows his head, fingers toying with the folds of his robes; careful as ever, he manages to not snag the fabric in his claws. "Ah, I'm projecting. Forgive me, I will try to think, to feel more quietly. It was something I struggled with when I was new to my seat, as well. Venat, though--in truth I am not that familiar with her nor the nature of her gifts nor do I suspect I ever was, given that my memories of my time as Zodiark's heart have remained quite clear. It was those memories from _before_ that time which were lost to me, and of the Sundering itself and the years immediately following. I don't believe she came to prominence until after the summoning."

"So she emerged from complete mundanity to take up this cause, a second summoning, specifically?"

"Not without purpose--and were it not so personal, I might even have agreed with her reasoning, if not her methods." Lachesis falls silent then, working his jaw as if testing the shapes of words in his mouth. "Emet-Selch left off his tale at Terminus, yes? I suppose it falls to me to continue it, if you are willing to hear it."

"I'd listen to anything you have to say," Frjota insists two seconds before realizing the words coming out of her mouth are true ones. "You have a gift for it; had I not known Lahabrea was titled the Speaker, I might have assumed it yours."

"You are too kind--in Amaurot, my voice was considered grating to listen to and I spoke infrequently as a result, preferring other means to get my points across."

Her ears turn to the back a bit in anger on his behalf. "They were clearly jealous! But. Go on."

Lachesis adjusts in his seat--at first she thinks it's discomfort at her frustration, but then she realizes he's only seeking a more comfortable position half-curled up in the chair. At some point the gold on his boots has vanished so as to not damage the leather. "Terminus," he says, voice hollow. "The point came when we realized we had two choices--we could remain in the city and fight, and eventually find ourselves overwhelmed. Or we could withdraw, commit to the summoning, and hope that we managed it in time that something might be preserved, able to recover. In truth we were not _ready_ , but time had run out, and it had come down to a choice between a chance and the death of an entire world, ourselves along with it.

"We had prepared a place already, above the star--beyond it, and we believed it would be far enough that the Sound would not affect us there. The monsters followed us through the portals we made, and the fine minds of the Convocation did create the most terrible of beasts; by the time no more of them remained to disturb the work, not a one of us was uninjured and we were all exhausted, though we all lived. Beneath us, we could see the world burning. The town of my birth had been lost some weeks prior, and by then even Amaurot itself was nearly destroyed.

"So did we turn ourselves to the work before us. The specifics of _how_ the summoning was carried out are ...unimportant, save that there was a point at which we could no longer turn back from what we had started, when the energies had already been drawn and I had already begun to take them into myself. As I prepared to cast myself into the aetheria sea, where Hades would gather me up and Lahabrea would give shape to my new form, I heard it, deeper and more terrible than before.

"We had--" Lachesis' voice breaks and Frjota crosses the gap between them in an instant, taking one gloved, clawed hand between her own. She knows what is coming; the words hang unspoken like a dark wave looming over them, and she _understands_ now.

_You are (death) would be a mercy!_

His fingers tighten; he shivers and the wave crashes, dragging them both under. "-- _we had not gone far enough_ , the Sound...I heard it. We all heard it, it was too late, it was _wrong_ but we could not stop, and when Zodiark emerged, when I was reborn with Him, He was--and would remain--forever fractured. A slow bleed of aether that we could never resolve, and He required more and more energy to be sustained. More sacrifices, more _lives_...

"And yet we could not turn aside from what we had done. In summoning Him forth, my brothers had offered themselves up to Him, and He had claimed them, tempered all. I alone was unaffected by that, but as part of Him was bound to the charge of His summoners. With His defeat, Hydaelyn took that part of His charge from us, and now they're all dead. And I feel so...

"... _empty_."

The last word is spoken with such hollowness, such _brittleness_ , that Frjota fears Lachesis will shatter when the sound of it dies, but he does not; he only sits in resolute silence. She can feel nothing from him at all, a lone still stone. Her fingers find the bottom edge of his glove and tug gently at it: he does not resist, and it slides off into her hands. "Grieve. Mourn," she says, setting it aside and tracing along his surprisingly-long fingers--the claws didn't add as much length as she'd thought. "You're allowed. For everything. You don't have to be quiet, not for my sake." That he'd even offered to do so bothers her now, a suppression of some innate part of _himself_...

A soft sound emerges from his throat: a single, broken note as Lachesis collapses forward, and Frjota lunges upwards from where she'd been kneeling on the floor in front of him to catch him, drawing him close and holding him as he breaks, weeping with all the unpent energy of a raging tempest. For a time, she nearly loses herself in the midst of the blinding storm that is his emotions, but she does not withdraw from him, nor does she even desire to.

To do so, she feels, would be to disavow the part she herself has played in bringing him to this state.

They remain like that for nearly an hour before he draws back; what shows of his face is nearly as scarlet as his mask, and damp besides. He opens his mouth to speak and Frjota shakes her head. "Do not apologize--I gave you nothing I didn't offer freely, and you took from me even less than that."

"We damned ourselves for a _chance_ at salvation--we did everything we could think of, everything that could be done--and still we failed."

She feels the intensity in his words, his grief on the edge of turning to anger; slowly, carefully, she lifts a hand to his face to trace gently along his cheek until the tips of her fingers brush against the lower edge of his mask and he draws in a sharp breath. "--may I?"

Lachesis exhales, warm air curling around and against her fingers. "I would seem to have little else to hide from you."

"Is that a yes?" It's soft and hard at the same time, like leather, she thinks, wrapped around a frame of...wood? bone? metal? Textured and elegant; she has seen masterworks of artisans respected throughout Eorzea less fine than this.

"Yes," he says, voice only a soft whisper.

He is perfectly still as she pulls it free of his cowl; Frjota isn't certain of what holds it in place, but it takes a bit more tugging than she'd expected and she turns to set it with his glove before looking at him, giving him a moment to adjust to being bare-faced before her.

His face is still red, of course, and his eyes bloodshot, but the irises of them are so pale that she thinks they would look out of place even were they not, so colorless she's not entirely sure she's _imagining_ her reflection there. She's contemplating the planes of his face (high cheekbones, nose stronger than she'd expected but it suits him, somehow) when a hand takes hers. "Lachesis, I..."

"Shh," he says softly, " _look_." He guides it up to the edge of his cowl, closing her fingers over the soft fabric for her and pulling it back from his face. "This is not quite how I looked, before. I was...taller, for one." The outer edges of his eyes crinkle a bit with even the feeble half-smile he gives her: his heart is worn on his face, framed by a graceful fall of white hair that looks fine enough to be a bundle of silken threads that tumbles free of the fabric to rest forward over his shoulder, held by a simple tie of the same brown leather as his gloves and boots. "But it is as best as I can manage here, like this. I would--I would be remembered."

Her heart lurches in her chest. They are not Emet-Selch's words, and he is not Emet-Selch; there is no command here, only a request, obliquely stated, and not specifically entailed upon her. She draws back from the chair, back to the floor, sitting back and taking him in. They are nearly at each other's eye level like this, hands still tangled together in his cowl.

Gold and silver, dark and light, young and impossibly, impossibly ancient.

"How could I not remember?" she asks of him, her voice fragile as she draws his hand back towards her face, towards her lips, to place the gentlest of kisses there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life things have settled out, and I can finally return to writing! This scene has been building up for a while, and it's crucial enough that I really wanted to devote the time to do it justice. It's really the bit that I gave up FFXIVWrite to get _right_.
> 
> This was planned out before Tales from the Shadows, and doesn't reflect that version of canon.


End file.
